Normally a source of solace, the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed a hollow beat that now only served to reflect the emptiness in my heart. Even though my father’s fight with illness was over a year ago, his influence could still be felt in our century-old family home’s polished mahogany floors and the aroma of ancient books. At the age of twenty, I was holding onto a legacy that my father had trusted me to uphold but that I wasn’t sure I was prepared to defend.
A pivotal moment that irreparably shattered our family was the reading of the will. My father had left me 90% of his assets, including the house, because he was aware of my mother’s impatience and my brother Tyler’s entitlement. Tyler and my mother were left with a pittance of ten thousand dollars each. I can still picture how my mother’s face contorted into a mask of unadulterated, hateful fury and how the air fled the lawyer’s office. To prevent the inevitable outburst, I lived on eggshells for a year, letting her dwell in the house and treating me like an outsider.
On a soggy May afternoon, that tranquility was upended. The front door slammed against the wall, and then I heard the heavy, steady thud of suitcases being pulled across the foyer. I discovered my brother Tyler standing among a pile of luggage with his wife, Gwen. They hadn’t inquired or called. They had just decided that my house was now their free accommodation since their lease had expired. My mother came up behind them, her voice icy and piercing, when I objected. With her eyes daring me to bring up the act, she replied, “I told them it was a wonderful idea.”
“Mom, this isn’t your house to offer,” I replied in a shaky voice.
There was a chilly silence after that. Tyler gave a sharp, patronizing laugh. “Katie, don’t be absurd. The family’s residence is here. We are related. I suddenly turned like a servant in my own life as they shoved past me and took the guest room with the greatest morning light.
The following two months descended into a nightmare at home. My kitchen, which used to be a peaceful spot for morning coffee, is now a battleground with oily plates and an abundance of rubbish. I was the only one who paid the utilities, the only one who cleaned, and the only one who respected the hallways’ quiet. The house was treated by Tyler and Gwen like an upscale resort with unseen employees. The “joyful” news that Gwen was expecting a child then arrived.
Those two blue lines on a plastic stick represented a permanent deed to my land in their eyes. There were allegations of callousness whenever a move-out date was discussed. “A pregnant woman wouldn’t be thrown out, would you?” Tyler would make fun of it. Gwen’s fiercest enforcer was my mother. I was reprimanded for the room’s temperature, awakened up at five in the morning for pregnancy cravings, and treated like a personal courier for a woman who could walk quite well but like to see me run.
On my birthday, the entitlement reached a fever pitch. I received a half-dozen of my favorite specialty cupcakes from my best buddy Zoe. In particular, I requested my mom to spare me one for when I got off work at the consulting firm. The box was empty on the counter when I returned home eight hours later. Gwen flashed me a self-satisfied, sugar-coated smile and stroked her stomach. She said, “Blame the baby.” My mom didn’t even raise her head from her reading. “Katie, she’s eating for two.” Be less self-centered.
It was about the methodical erosion of my limits, not the food. After purchasing a mini-fridge for my room to safeguard my goods, I discovered that my mother had “raid the snacks” by using her spare key to let Gwen in. They assured me that “family doesn’t lock doors” when I confronted them. It became evident that “family” in my home was a one-way street that was utilized to enable my exploitation.
On a taxing Thursday, the breaking point was reached. I had been up since the sun came up, balancing a full shift at work with a significant business project. I hadn’t had a bite to eat all day. When I eventually entered the room at 7:00 p.m., I was so hungry that my head was spinning. The aroma of my father’s famous mushroom pasta filled the kitchen with nostalgic recollections as I worked for forty minutes. I put the dish on the counter with the intention of eating quietly, but I had to leave for ten minutes due to an urgent call from my professor.
I came back to find Gwen sitting at the counter, shoving the last of my dinner into her mouth without any fanfare.
“Gwen? I had that for supper. I said in a dangerously low voice, “I haven’t eaten all day.”
She didn’t even stop. “The baby liked the smell, and I was hungry.”
“Cook your own food!” At last, the dam of my patience burst, and I snapped. “You’re not an invalid; you’re pregnant. I’m done with you after months of treating me like a maid in my own home!
The spectacle that followed was a gaslighting circus. Tyler came in to play the hero, yelling about his “traumatized” wife, Gwen started crying crocodile tears, and my mother gave the last hit. “Katie, you’re a self-centered witch. Your dad would be embarrassed by you. Until you can learn to be a human being, leave this house!
I stood staring at the three of them, individuals who were descended from me but did not share my heart. My father had left the house especially to keep me safe from them, and they were attempting to evict me. I refrained from arguing. I didn’t yell in response. I just went upstairs, locked the door to my bedroom, and called my father’s brother, Uncle Bob.
“Uncle Bob,” I responded, maintaining my composure despite the tears. “Are you still interested in purchasing the house? I want them to leave. Every one of them.
My brother and mother were vipers, as Uncle Bob had long understood. He moved as quickly as a man who has been anticipating this moment. In twenty-four hours, the documentation was prepared. The following morning, I went into the living room and shut off the TV.
I declared, “I sold the house.” “To Uncle Bob.” In 48 hours, he will change the locks and begin extensive improvements. You must all go by noon on Saturday.
It exploded instantly. They experimented with the guilt card, the “family” card, and the pregnant card. But for the first time, I was unaffected by what they said. I told them they could figure it out because they had their $10,000 from the will. For two days, I avoided the deluge of “heartless monster” texts that poured into my phone by staying with Zoe.
The sale was completed for two million dollars, which changed my life by enabling me to purchase a lovely, sun-filled cottage in a peaceful neighborhood. I felt the burden of the previous year lift off my shoulders as I stood on my new porch on the day I moved in. “You’ve made us homeless,” my mother texted me one last time. I hope you’re content.
I didn’t respond. I removed the thread and blocked her number. My father wouldn’t have been embarrassed, I thought as I sat in my beautiful living room, enjoying a cupcake that nobody would take. I had finally used the house dad had left me as a tool to create a dignified existence. Family is defined by those who support you during difficult times, not by the people you have a last name with. The sky was clear for the first time in a long time after I had left the storm behind.